Delayed Reaction
by Cherry-San
Summary: OT5. SanaxTezxAtoxFujixRyo. Young love never lasts. Hormones and emotions mix, and you don't realize that twenty years later you won't even remember their name. But years after a breakup, five men wake up and remember. 2/12- UPDATE CHAPTER 4.
1. Atobe

I have no idea what this is. I really don't.

And it's OT5. Dear lord, help me. Non-crack-ish.

Disclaimer is here.

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Atobe pressed his manicured finger down delicately, efficiently ending the call on his cell phone. With a tired sigh, he set the sleek, black phone down near the corner of the mahogany desk, the smooth plastic spinning slightly across the smooth surface in reaction to the sudden movement. He brushed a stray piece of hair away from his eyes are he stared blankly into the lit computer screen, number and figures scrolled across surface in an unintelligible blur. He closed his tired eyes, releasing them from their strain of work, silently willing the headache away.

He opened his eyes slowly after a moment, allowing his gaze to trail to the bottom corner of the screen to read out the time. Late. It was getting late, even for Atobe's strenuous work standard. He stood up from his chair, mentally wincing at harsh scraping of the base of the chair against the dard-wood floor while he moved the computer mouse a few inches in order to save his work. He limbs moved automatically as he moved to shut down the piece of machinery, his free arm already pushing his chair back toward the desk by the time the screen flashed black.

Atobe gripped the edge of table, rebalancing himself after the long period of sitting silently at his desk, expertly balancing the necessary paperwork. As Atobe walked out of the door, he waved his hand to dismiss the servants that waited quietly outside his office. The two remaining maids scattered at his signal, his personal butler customarily falling a step behind Atobe.

Reaching his room, he undressed himself mechanically, giving a small hand signal for his personal butler to bring him his nightly glass of wine. He slid the light purple silk nightshirt over his slim shoulders as he stared out into his garden, his eyes focused on the shimmering half moon that glistened against the raven black sky. The customary ruffles of his shirt tickled against his chest as he stared into nothing, his mind blissfully devoid of any thought.

He remained silent, even as he butler came by, offering the slim glass out to Atobe on a pallet, the sleek surface of the liquid jittering at the movement. Atobe grasped it expertly, bringing it up to his lips to allow the alcohol to slide down his throat. His eyes slid shut as the soft chink of glass and wood met his ears, his servant placing the remaining bottle of wine onto a nearby surface. He only turned around as he heard the door slide shut from behind him, allowing him to set the glass gingerly down onto his nightstand parallel to the burgundy colored bottle as he slid himself under the silken covers. The king-sized bed shifted at the added weight, empty except for its recent occupant.

Atobe despised it. He despised turning around and seeing nothing. He never wanted to admit that even before his wife had moved herself into the eastern hall; it had always been far too empty.

His wife, Hashimaru Keiko, was a beautiful woman from an old and traditional Japanese family whom Atobe had married at his father's urging shortly after he received full control over all of the Atobes' industrial workings. Atobe Industry needed an heir, an heir that only Atobe could provide. So they married, created an heir, and then distanced themselves to the fullest of their abilities and vast resources.

Distance indeed. His wife called a few nights prior, Atobe recalled as he took another sip of wine. France, was it? Or perhaps Italy, he mused. Keiko always did have a fondness for Italy… and its _culture_. Atobe held back a mirthless chuckle, swirling his wine glass with half-lidded eyes._ 'Culture_,' he thought dryly.

Atobe ungracefully tilted his head back, allowing the remaining half of wine to slide down his throat. He let the taste flow across his tongue as he set the glass down, savoring the slight tingle the drug left in his mouth. He reached over, grasping the dark glass bottle with pale manicured fingers. He balanced it expertly, the reflection of light hitting his eyes for a moment from the dark colored glass before he shifted the angle. The faint splashing of liquid reached his ears as he poured another glass. As he tilted his head to pour the toxin down his throat, he idly wondered when he started drinking the liquid in such unseemly quantities. _'A few months ago,'_ he mused. _'Maybe years.'_

Atobe stopped counting thing that didn't matter.

As Atobe finished the second glass of wine of with a disdainful relish reaching over to turn off the lamp that settled on the nearby stand, Atobe wondered when everything started.

And he forces himself to sleep before he allows himself to realize that he already knows.

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The Atobe family had servants. Lots of servants. On average, the family had no less than three dozen full-time workers at the mansion at any given moment. Each year, the family went through at over a hundred new servants. Some would stay in their service for a few years while others left within a week. The family demanded loyalty, silence, promptness, and discretion. However, in return for years as acting as a loyal, well-spoken maid or butler, the family offered not only a hefty paycheck but also a generous retirement settlement.

Few workers actually manage to reap the long time reward, however; the family's utter need for _perfection_ was a main cause of their high turnover rate. Those who stay over the years and has watched over their young master Atobe can't help be realize that despite the grandeur, the wealth, and the fame Atobe Keigo possessed, their young master was still trapped in regret for letting go.

There are a total of two servants under Atobe's employment that still remember the first time Atobe started to play tennis. These two are among the five that even remember the skill their master Atobe held on the tennis court. But those who do remember, those who can bring up the image of a young boy standing on a tennis court, his hand raised in the air to snap once and to be left with a silent crowd, knew that this boy possessed the ability to be great.

Atobe rose. Vice captain to captain. Vice president to class president. He rose quickly to whatever status available, only held back by long standing traditions involving his age. Memories of the years attening Hyotei remain prominent as they gaze at the aged CEO, the image of a teen clad in a blue and white uniform with eyes piercing into nothing as single hand moves in insight overlap that of an overworked man sitting stiffly at a desk, his head bent low as his smoke gray eyes scanned over numbers and letters and graphs.

They remember the comments, the _accusations_, of the boy's sudden status rise in school. Others thought it was his money, his family.

Then they saw him play.

Those two remaining servants had watched as their young master fought against fallen gods and reigning princes. They watched as the other smiled a secret smile on the court, his muscles moving with poise as he slid across the baseline, his body already bent to continue the rally. They watched as the young master spoke calmly with interest, one hand gripping the smooth plastic container of the cell phone, the oddest spark of _something_ in his eyes, his smirk turning into a true smile. They watched as the young boy played, fought, ruled, and fell.

Atobe Keigo was a character. He was a narcissistic, conceited drama queen who loved attention. He was a charismatic leader who got everything he asked for with a snap though he honestly demanded little. He was a man who could rule over thousands with respect and sublimity while still remaining human.

But perfection is for the naïve, and even Atobe could be a fool when in love.

Some servants watched and realized.

One of them remembers that Atobe was still a teenager in the throes of hormones, curiosity, and first loves.

One of them wonders if Atobe learned anything, even know. Pride means nothing when seen next to what he had. What he gave up.

And both of them only hope that it isn't too late to turn back the clock.

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Atobe Keigo couldn't sleep.

A sliver of light cut across the darkened room, the result of a slight gap among the dark indigo curtains that framed the glass-paned windows. Atobe shifted restlessly, the dark satin sheets curling around his legs as he attempted to find a comfortable resting spot. His smoke gray eyes stared aimlessly as his wall, his mind blissfully blank for the time as he traced the outline of the curtains with his eyes.

"_Keigo, won't you come to bed? It's rather lonely over here without you."_

"_Hn, in a minute. I'm almost done." Click. Click. Click._

…

"_It's been a minute, now come to bed."_

_Click. Click. "Just-" _

"_Keigo."_

_A sigh. Then a smirk. Click. Click. "Very well. I suppose that it'd be cruel to deny my lovers my magnificence for any longer." _

_Yawn. "Just shut up and get over here, Monkey King."_

_Smile. "My pleasure."_

Atobe turned his head, tearing his eyes away from the curtains to stare blankly at his hand that was curled absently around the tops of the sheet. His fingers traced the seam of the fabric, the feathery bumps of thread gliding under his skin. He didn't know why he thought of that.

He was lying, and he knew it. He knew why he thought of that conversation. Curtains. His hand fisted the sheets for a moment before he unfurled them, stretching his fingers out as he moved them to rest at his side. Ryoma had threatened to burn "those hideous purple curtains you picked out" if Atobe didn't "stop that annoying typing" and help complete the five way orgy that was waiting for him in their joint king-sized bed.

Shuusuke laughed. Kunimitsu gave an amused smile. Genichirou chuckled.

Atobe released a sigh, turning onto his other side as he slid one hand underneath his pillow, savoring the cool touch against his palm. Strands of gray hair fell into eyes he shifted, moving his legs to untangle them from their capture among his sheet. He shifted his hand as the fabric warmed to his temperature, eager to find another cool resting spot. Again his shifted, tilting his head upward toward the fabric canopy over his head to allow the clump of hair to fall back into place and away from his line of vision.

His slid his eyes shut, willing his mind to relax and forget and just _sleep_.

"_Genichi-"_

…

…

"… _Well that was a rather pleasant welcome I must say."_

Atobe turned again, lying on his back as his left hand was perched limply over his abdomen.

"_Stop molesting Ryoma, Keigo."_

"_Saa, Kuni-chan. Let Kei-chan have his fun for now. He has been busy lately."_

"_I must agree with Shuusuke, Kuni-chan. I have been severely overworked these last few days. I think I need something to release this _tension _that's been building up."_

Atobe left hand twitched irritably, his thumb bending to feel the outline of his gold wedding band he wore for the public. His other hand reached over to join its partner; his fingers twisting the plain metal band and jiggling it loose. He gave his fingers a stretch as he opened his eyes, carelessly tossing the ring into his bedside drawer. He brought his hand in front of his face, his keen eyesight catching the outline of his hand despite the lack of lighting. His fingers traced over the small indent the ring had made in his skin. Both hands fell back to his sides with a soft 'flop', a heavy sigh escaping the diva's lips. Gold never was his color, he thought with resignation. However, he couldn't bring himself to pick out a silver one like before.

He swallowed hard as he tried not to think about_ it_ again. It. The fivesome he had been ardently involved in for almost two years, otherwise known as the all-male orgy that had been the most exalting experience he could remember.

Atobe didn't want to be reminded of giving up the four men he loved more than anything. He didn't want to remember breaking apart from the passion, the tenderness, the humor, the…

Atobe stopped himself.

"_Shuusuke, can you take your hand off my ass please? I have a match tomorrow, and it's hard to sleep when you keep fondling me like that."_

"_That's not me, Ryo-chan. My hands are occupied with Gen-chan over here."_

"_Hn."_

"_Thanks, buchou."_

Atobe gave up. He slid himself from under the covers, his arm reaching over a few inches to snap the light back. He winced at the sudden illumination, snapping his eyes shut for a few seconds as he adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light. He blinked a few times rapidly as he walked, his right hand hovering slightly out on his side to catch himself from hitting anything in his half-blind state. The quick jolt of shock quickly subsided, and he grabbed a robe from his closet, sliding the azure-colored silk over his shoulders in one smooth movement. He tied the cloth around his waist, the soft feel of carpet against his flesh disappearing as he slid a pair of slippers over his bare feet.

He walked back to his office, all of his night staff politely ignoring him in the hallway as he made his way through the mansion. The lights clicked on as he opened up the large oak doors, and Atobe made his way over to the liquor cabinet whose purpose was deemed as decoration than actual use. He slid the lock open, allowing the glass door to swing open with a barely audible creak. He grabbed a small glass from the side and a elaborate bottle that was filled with a generous amount of amber liquid.

He popped the decorative top of the heavy container, pouring himself a glass, idly watching as the liquid settled in the cup. As he slid the bottle back into the cabinet he found himself amazed at the smooth surface of the liquid that stood in the cup.

A light ripple made its way over the surface as Atobe sat down as his desk, his movements jostling the wooden counter. The miniature waves spread throughout the rest of the exterior layer of the alcohol, crashing into the thick glass walls with an inaudible slosh.

And with a bitter smile, Atobe took a sip.

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"…_Stay one more night, Keigo? Please?"_

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Updated August 6, 2006 – Fixed some spelling and grammar mistakes as well as a hoard of typing errors.

It is revised from the last time I posted it a week or two ago. I got rid of the OCs that were in there before and just made it some weird and unknown perspective in the middle.

I don't know who I'm going to do next, when I'm going to update, or where this story is going. Just thought I'd let you all know.

Reviews are loved. Yes, I'm a review whore. Deal.


	2. Echizen

Wow. I'm updating within a year. What a surprise.

Extra note: I started this around 1AM, deciding to add a bit more to what I had. It is now 5AM. I took one break to take a shower. I was supposes to sleep 3 hours ago. This is why I don't get into writing moods often because when I do, I tend to lose track of time.

_  
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"_This… isn't working."_

_Sanada's head shot up as he removed his attention from his laptop, his piercing brown eyes landing on rich lover. Tezuka paused from his reading, lower the book into his lap as he eyed the diva through his slim silver frames, the customary impassive expression placed firmly over his face. Fuji's hand stopped in mid motion, still gripped on a small black knob as he fiddled with his newest camera, the lenses flashing in the brightly lit room. Ryoma slid out of their joint closet, his wet hair plastered against his neck from his recent shower as a loose black shirt was pulled over his head and a pair of thin cotton pants hanging low on his slim hips. _

"_What are you talking about, Keigo?" Sanada asked, by impulse saving his half-typed essay and turning himself fully around to gaze at their shared lover._

_Atobe fidgeted, his legs crossed delicately as he fiddled with his deep indigo cell phone. The small charm clapped against the plastic sides, making a small clicking sound that was barely audible. He refrained himself from biting his lip as he pointedly avoided the gaze of his four boyfriends. "I…" he said, trailing off uncertainty. He pushed back his pounding heart, willing himself to stop shaking as he spoke the next words. "I'm moving out."_

_There was a moment of stunned silence where the heir to Atobe Industry took to his advantage as he continued to talk in a rush and shaky voice. "The arrangements have been made already. All my belongings will be moved out within the week. Anything left behind you four may do as you wish with them." Atobe paused as he gripped his phone tightly, willing his hand to stop shaking as he spoke._

"…_You're breaking up with us," Tezuka stated quietly, his voice devoid of any emotion as he assessed the implications of Atobe's words. His book hung limply in his left hand, his thumb instinctively marking his place as the hard crimson cover rested on his thigh. _

_Atobe forced his eyes downward to stare at the edge of the oak desk. His thumb dug into the crack of his newest phone, slipping open the device partially before closing it as a forced distraction. He continued, "You four may keep the apartment for as long as you wish. I shall take care of any expenses that may come about including power and water bills."_

_There was another period of awkward silence as the four men attempted to distinguish what was happening. Ryoma hadn't moved, a childish part of his mind praying that this just wasn't happening and he's wake up, roll over, and proceed to have morning shower sex with one or two of this lovers._

_His illusion was shattered by Fuji voice "So that's it, is it Keigo?" he said harshly, his cerulean blue eyes open as blatant ice covered his words. "You had your fun, and now it's time to pay us off like whores?" His words were biting and cruel, his camera left forgotten on the antique Persian rug as his hands were clutched into tight fist. His prim manicured nails dug into his skin, leaving sharp indentation on his pale flesh._

_Atobe kept himself from answering, from denying that it wasn't like that. He was about to agree with Fuji's statement, knowing that a lie could help them get over his departure. Maybe if they hated him, he thought, it wouldn't hurt as much. Atobe almost laughed at the thought, never thinking himself to be one for cliché romantic self-sacrifice. That was Oshitari's department after all._

_The words never left his mouth. He had turned to Fuji, his mind already preparing itself for the arrogant lies that would wholeheartedly agree with Fuji's assessment, before he found himself staring blankly at the opposite wall. The stinging coursed through his face, dissipating as quickly as it came, leaving Atobe in a shocked silence. His cell phone lied on the ground; the screen snapped shut as the small bell connected to the charm gave a light ring as it rolled against the carpet, despite the fact that Atobe never remember dropping it._

_Sanada stood poised over Atobe, his hand still poised from his attack. "Don't you dare, Keigo," he said, his voice stern with anger emanating from the edges of the words. "Don't you dare," he repeated, "think you can just get up and leave and pretend like nothing happened."_

_Tezuka stood up from his comfortable lounge, placing books carelessly on the coffee table to his left, not bothering to stop and mark his place. He strode over to the pair, betraying none of his emotions as he moved. "Genichirou," he said softly, placing one hand over Sanada's still raised arm. He put a light pressure on the limb, forcing it back to his tall lover's side and giving his hand a light squeeze before he pulled away._

_He turned his hazel eyes back to his gray-haired lover, meeting his eyes through glass frames. "Keigo," he said, his monotonous words piercing into the silence. "Explain this. Now." His words were sharp, an authoritative edge lacing his voice._

_Atobe removed his hand from his stinging cheek, gathering up his composure within seconds. He forced his most arrogant huff from the back of his throat, turning his head to the side as he gave a flippant gesture with his hand. "There's nothing to explain." He turned his eyes to meet the former Seigaku captain, hoping that he wouldn't fall apart. "It's just as Shuusuke said. It was fun, but I need something new to capture my interest." A smirk fell on his mouth, "And, being the generous being that I am, only found it to be fair to give you the apartment. It's not as if it'll be a great hindering on my rather vast fortune, now would it?"_

_The lie tasted bitter as it left the tip of his tongue, and without looking he already knew that the brunette didn't believe a single word. _

_----------------------------------_

'_Bah.'_ Ryoma shook himself out of his stupor, reaching over to twist the clear crystal knob to shut off the water. The glass door was fogged from the hot shower, light tendrils of steam still seen curling around itself in the light. Ryoma pulled his hair back, squeezing out the liquid from his short hair. He gave his head a sharp shaking, allowing the water to splatter against the door, the droplets blending in against the door with those remaining from the powerful showerhead.

Ryoma hated thinking. Ryoma was impulsive and he had gotten far enough in life with acting on impulse, bypassing the usual censoring notions that most people go through before acting. Thinking just complicated things.

But after a long hard day of instructing a batch of kids barely hitting puberty about which end of the tennis racket you hold, he was too exhausted to really care now. He hated being around kids when they were his peers, so why they heck would he enjoy it _now_? Sometimes he regretted even offering his services as a teacher. The pay was beyond reasonable as it was amazing what the rich and powerful are willing to put out to have their children taught by a former professional tennis player.

Ryoma scoffed at the thought. His tennis might have been one of the most memorable in history but that didn't make him any better as a teacher. Parents were actually better off hiring someone well-trained in teaching while being mediocre at actually playing tennis. Not that he would tell them that. If some rich bastard wanted to waste money trying to drill tennis concept into the head of a ten-year-old who really didn't give a flying fuck by a teacher who equally didn't care, then Ryoma sure as hell wasn't going to stop them.

_'Hm,'_ Ryoma contemplated as he toweled his hair dry, a second towel already slung over his hips as he stood in front of the fogged mirror. Maybe that was where the sudden memory had come from.

_"I know it's not as grand as my usually standards, but I'm afraid at such short notice, there is only so much even I can do."_

_"…"_

_"Most of my staff is actually on vacation so we might be a little short-handed in terms of cooks and a few maids but it's nothing we can't handle, I'm sure."_

_"…"_

_"The west wing and library area are currently under some renovation according to the so it might be a bit of a tight fit. However, I've rented out the back beach for the next few miles so we don't have to be worried about privacy."_

_"Keigo."_

"_Yes, Genichirou?"_

"_Shut up."_

Atobe was wealth reincarnated and the man had no qualms against using his money to pamper is lover, whether they wanted it or not.

But that was the past, and Echizen Ryoma always hated History.

---------------

Echizen Ryoma swept the tennis world by storm. At age twelve, he entered the pro world as quickly as he left it, winning the U.S. Open before disappearing back into Japan. When questioned later on why he didn't stay within the professional tennis world, Ryoma gave a bored, clear, and perfectly textbook answer of wanting to finish his schooling.

So when the Samurai Junior appeared into another major tennis tournament barely a month after high school graduation, there were no questions as to why.

Despite the boy's fame and reputation, it was far too much to think that he went undefeated, a task that was all but impossible. But Echizen Ryoma was famous for never losing to the same person more than once in his entire pro career, whether it was in an official match or a friendly game.

He went undefeated in his first two years as a professional tennis player, achieving a True Grand Slam in his first year as a professional tennis player by winning all four Grand Slam tournaments the same year.

He lost in the semi-final round of the Monte Carlo Masters when he was twenty-one, to the number one seed in Europe with a score of four to six. Barely four months later in the semi-finals of the U.S. open, Echizen reclaimed victory with a final score of seven to five. In coincidental match almost a year later in the quarterfinals of the Australian Open, he won with six games to three.

Echizen Ryoma moved into the number one spot in men's singles in tennis, taking sixteen Grand Slam titles in his eight year career, knocking down Pete Sampras to second in total championship titles who had obtained a total of fourteen Grand Slam titles that was won over his fifteen year career.

Echizen Ryoma was infamous among the press for being difficult to book an interview with and near impossible to gain a substantial answer from. So when Echizen announced his official retirement at age twenty-six, the world was baffled. The young Japanese player had never answered directly as to why he retired when his career could have easily been prolonged another five years. Most of this was the handiwork of his manager, a patient man twenty years Ryoma's senior.

A wise choice considering that the older man didn't think the tennis star's answer of seeing a lack of proficient opponent would sit too well with the rest of the professional tennis world.

Echizen Ryoma became a legend. He gained everything he could have wanted, surpassing even his father's wildest dreams.

His life was perfect. He had achieved everything he ever wanted.

So why was it that when he slipped into bed next to his sleeping girlfriend, did he feels so empty?

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Tezuka Kunimitsu went pro at age twenty-two, taking a break from his studies to travel abroad and play. In his brief pro tennis career, his managed to win two Grand Slam titles. He created the second largest upset in the last five decades of pro tennis history by being an unknown rookie, topped only by the overwhelming upset caused by one Echizen Ryoma, the ultimate wild card and underdog who won his first Grand Slam title at age twelve.

And barely a year out of his career, did he announce his retirement. He "felt that continuing his studies took precedence over tennis".

Ryoma wandered if this was true. For some reason he couldn't see his former captain giving up tennis to study law.

Then again, Ryoma didn't have the right to judge anymore. Ultimately, he _had_ been the one to walk out on them.

Ryoma always found it ironic that he never met his ex-lover on the courts, or elsewhere after the break-up. The two Grand Slam tournaments that Tezuka dominated were coincidently two that Ryoma had bypassed that year. The first being the French Open where Ryoma's father had been hospitalized for a heart attack. Though his father he recovered and was fine, Ryoma had invented some excuse to stay nearby, never once admitting that he had left on a plane back to the States without a word to even his manager when he heard. The second, Wimbledon, he had bypassed because Karupin ate a sock and needed surgery. The twenty-year old had been unwilling to leave his cat so shortly after the operation, despite the fact that both the veterinarian and his manager assured him that, _yes_, Karupin was perfectly fine, and _yes_, all laundry was safely kept out of the cat's reach. And Ryoma wasn't willing to risk taking his cat overseas.

His manager never figured out whether this was an excuse since Ryoma just didn't want to go through the trouble of "beating the shit" out of some amateur players or if he was actually serious about missing an international tournament because of his _cat_.

He was almost afraid to think it was most likely the latter.

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"_Shuusuke?" Ryoma asked, the two of them intertwined in a picture of limbs on their joint bed. The three missing parts of their orgy had been busy with class and/or business, and Ryoma had easily managed coerced the playful prodigy into bed with him._

"_Hm?" Shuusuke answered, running a hand along the contours of Ryoma's soft pliant body in content afterglow._

"_Why can't everything be like tennis?"_

Ryoma was out of bed. He couldn't sleep. Again.

Ryoma was beyond being annoyed at this reoccurring annoyance in his sleep schedule. He was just so tired now. He felt _old_. He hurriedly tossed his covers aside, careful not to jostle his still sleeping girlfriend.

Girlfriend. He almost sneered at the term alone. He had never been one for relationships but after six years of on-and-off dating, he didn't know what to do. The relationship wasn't going anywhere, Ryoma knew it and he was certain she did as well. Everyone expected him to propose any day now, including himself. Ring and all had been bought nearly a year ago after constant nagging from his father yet he had never managed to bring himself to ask.

And Ryoma didn't want to admit that it was because part of his mind was still living in a fantasy. Part of him still felt that pulling himself into marriage meant that his relationship with _them_ was officially gone.

Ryoma forced a scoff at the though. That was foolish. It's been almost two decades now. It would be pathetic to still be pining after some stupid long lost love(s) after this long. Ryoma wanted to slap himself. He had moved on. Love doesn't last that long, let alone one that started when he had barely hit puberty.

He was going to be engaged. He had a beautiful girlfriend he met nearly a year after he finished his degree in business management. She was pretty thing, fun, cheerful, and the exact opposite of him. She played tennis, not good enough to go pro but enough to where they could hold a decent discussion regarding the sport.

Uncharacteristically, he thought he was in love. They dated, their relationship fluctuating due to her need for commitment and mixture of Ryoma's natural aloof personality and his hidden reluctance to finally let go.

Nonetheless, they never officially broke up.

And now they were stuck in limbo.

Ryoma sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in over a month. Even when he did mange to sleep a few hours, he'd wake up even more tired than when he fell asleep. Every time he took his girlfriend out, he'd finger the small velvet box before putting it off once again. Business was good, too good. He had more appointments than time in addition to legal paperwork and keeping up with his own practice times. He was dead tired and frankly just… sick of it all.

And for the first time in years, after weeks of exhaustion, insomnia, and stress, Ryoma finally just... stopped trying to pretend he didn't care anymore.

"Buchou," he whispered into the deadly night air, the melodic chirping of crickets carried by the cold night wind as he stared at the crescent moon half covered by clouds. He leaned against the railing, a robe hanging limply over his night clothes that did little to shield himself from the chill of the October evening. His golden eyes closed as he let the familiar word sweep over his body after so many years. "Buchou," he repeated as he opened his eyes to let them glisten against the pale and weak moonlight. "Shuusuke. Genichirou. Monkey King."

He tilted his head, turmoil and regret swirling in his eyes. "What do I do now?"

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"_Because if it was, that'd make everything too easy."_

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I'm not happy with this. The only part I like is the beginning flashback. Everything else, I hate. I think Ryoma is OOC. Yes, he has a girlfriend. I probably won't even give her name. It actually started out as it being his wife but I couldn't stand thinking that he'd willingly get married. Info about Ryoma's titles, etc were semi-bullshitted.

I hate OCs but there is no way I can write this without any.

This was actually about 1000 words longer but I cut it out to put into the next chapter.

I'm also looking for a beta. E-mail me if you are interested. I'm looking for someone who has writing experience, has at least high school level grammar, and can help me from everything from typing errors, grammar to catching OOC-ness, overdone angst, and all around crap in writing. Like this entire chapter.

Reviews are loved. Constructive Criticism is highly welcome. I'll probably sulk for a day afterwards but I need to deal.


	3. Tezuka

More minor OCs. I'm sorry. But as you see, they don't get names either, so I hope that makes it slightly better. I apologize ahead of time for any inconsistencies or confusion.

---------------------------

_Ryoma was the first to break the numbness that had fallen over the five, striding forward to wrap his arms around Atobe's neck from behind, one hand splaying across the other's well-defined chest. "Stop talking, Monkey King," he said in a meek attempt to pass the moment off as a joke, his voice shaking at the effort. He laid a sensual kiss at the base of Atobe's neck, pulling back to whisper into former Hyotei captain's ear, "And come to bed."_

_Atobe knew he should have pulled away, but he hand found its way up to his shoulder, intertwining his fingers that that of his youngest lover's. "Ryoma," he said softly, melancholy seeping into the whispered name. "Stop. I…" His words faltered as he squeezed the petite hand tighter. "I really can't."_

_Ryoma paused, resting his chin on Atobe' shoulder, his free hand lying limply across the diva's chest. Light strands of gray hair brushed against his cheek, and the faint lavender scent from Atobe's shampoo served to placate him for the moment._

_Fuji had moved from his perch on the floor, choosing to join his circle of lovers and willingly falling into Sanada's strong embrace. "Why?" he said weakly, his voice now devoid of the passing anger and ice that had surfaced previously. Wordlessly, Tezuka linked their hands, refraining a wince as he felt Fuji's strong grip clutch his hand._

_There was no point in lying now, Atobe thought, almost laughing at the notion that he thought he could keep anything from his lovers. They could see straight through him, and he was an idiot to believe he could simply walk away and hope they didn't chase him._

_By habit, Atobe pulled himself closer into Ryoma's arms before he spoke, "My father." He words were soft, though clearly audible by the group. "My father found out."_

"_And that's all?" Ryoma said in his usual bored drawl. "He can't stop us. "You're the only person who can take over for him. What's he going to do? Disown you? What would he tell the press then?" There was a light pause and if it hadn't been for the fact that Ryoma had gripped his hand just a little tighter, Atobe would have almost believed that the young tennis player was dismissing the subject. _

"_It's not that simple," Atobe continued. "I had a week. This is the last day. If I don't end this 'sordid affair'," he paused lightly at the two words, sarcasm dripping from the bitter wording, "he _will_ find another candidate for an heir."_

_He continued talking quickly, cutting off any other scathing remarks that Fuji most likely had ready to give from the tip of his tongue, "You know I'd give it up for you. I'd give it all up in a heartbeat. But, I have responsibilities." Atobe turned his head away, avoiding the others eyes as he ran his fingers over the back of Ryoma's hand._

"_My father is worried about tabloids, yes. I'm sure he cares about the family's reputation and image more than the actual business and money. No son is better than a gay son is his eyes. However, if I am disowned, my father would have no other choice but to rename his successor. The closest and most capable candidate is my uncle, who is far less intelligent than he is greedy." Atobe spat out the word "capable" with disdain, showing his obvious contempt._

_He stopped to take a breath, turning his head to look at his surrounding lovers. "In Atobe Industries main headquarters located directly in downtown Tokyo, there are one thousand, six hundred and ninety-two people under direct employment. There are over three hundred individual plinked franchises across Japan, and another two hundred spread across the rest of the world, the smallest of these having a minimum of twenty people under management employment at any time while the largest has over three hundred. Not including stock holders and others who may be dependent on unlisted or unrecorded jobs, we employ over twenty thousand people. Statistically, almost ten percent of the total population is somehow directly connected to Atobe Industries. If the companies goes under or even falters for a week, thousands may lose their jobs and even more suffer from buget cuts. Out of these, seventy-seven percents are married, forty-five which are the sole supporter of their family, and sixty percent which support at least one other person, whether a parent or a child."_

_Atobe named all the number, figures, and facts quickly and in succession without hesitation. He had done his researched. He had tried to find any other way, praying and hoping that he could just not care. He looked away this time, "And I can't let that happen. I can't allow my personal feelings and preference to risk doing something that may take decades to repair within Japan's economy. We have our hand in every major business in the world, and if the company goes down by the sole fault of an incapable chief executive, I don't know if I can leave it be."_

_He stopped abruptly, his voice losing its assured tone as he stopped his explanation. He felt disgustedly sentimental and pushed back a caustic laugh as he placed a soft kiss on silken skin Ryoma's hand. "If I can prevent it, even if it means giving you all up, I have to take it." 'Because even as much as I want my happy ending, I can't just look away.'_

_No one spoke afterwards, none of them knowing whether it was because they didn't know what to say or whether they still hoped it wasn't true._

_Tezuka broke through the unsteady calm that settled over the group. "I understand," he said, his voice retaining its natural calm though his hand shook despite his efforts. He reached his one free hand forward, pulling Atobe out of his chair to stand closer to him. "But," his voice broke uncharacteristically as he trailed off, his hand now gripping Fuji's equally tight, his other hand gently stroking the side of Atobe's cheek._

_Fuji finished for him, reaching a hand out to brush lightly against Atobe's jawline, ""…Stay one more night, Keigo? Please?"_

"_For us," Sanada said, a sad smiling gracing his lips as he reached out his hand. "Just once more for us."_

----------------------------------

"We, the jury, find the defendant guilty."

Tezuka was snapping the bolts of his briefcase shut before the head juror finished her sentence. His neatly typed notes were carefully placed inside as they had waited for the outcome, precise handwritten notes scrolled along the margins. He flipped close the final brass-colored latch, the light clang of metal against metal resounding in his vicinity. He ignored the yells of the now-convict, the empty threats falling to deaf ears as Tezuka pushed his glasses up by habit with his left hand.

He turned around, giving a curt nod to the defendant's lawyer before facing the detectives he was working with on the case.

The first detective gave a brief smile, her black hair brushing her shoulders as her partner stayed behind a few feet. "It's finally over," she said, relief evident in her voice.

"Yes," Tezuka replied, his voice stiff and polite.

"Care to join us in some drinks in celebration?" her partner offered, accustomed to the older male's laconic responses, his hands slipping casually into the pockets of his jacket, the dark brown cotton fabric brushing against his tops of his knees.

Tezuka gave a small bow. "Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. I must start working on the Kurosaki case."

The other male gave a light-hearted grin. "Thought so but thought I'd ask anyway, just in case, ya know? You really need to relax every once in awhile or you'll die from stress alone, Tezuka."

Tezuka allowed a small smile to escape, though his eyes remained impassive through his silver frames. "I'll keep that in mind." He grabbed his jacket, folding it over his forearm as he gave another polite bow. "Please excuse me." Tezuka slid himself out of the courtroom, pointedly ignoring the questions and lights that bombarded him the moment he stepped out of the courtroom.

"Do you have any comments about the last minute witnesses the defendant brought in?"

"Tezuka-san, what are your reactions to the defendants threats? Will you be taking any extra precautions?"

"Tezuka-sa-"

The voices were shortly cut off, the large oak doors slamming shut with a loud 'thud' that resounded throughout the room. The remaining male gave a wry grin as his eyes followed the trail of the assistant district attorney. Tezuka Kunimitsu had been working with their department for well over three years yet in all that time, and yet he has never known Tezuka to join them for a round of drinks. He wasn't his business though, he thought with a shrug, turning back to his female partner who eyes were still gazing aimlessly at the wooden doors.

"Hey," he said, catching her attention as he pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. Giving them a light jingle he asked, "Since he refused, care to take me up on my offer?"

His partner smiled, her eyes sparkly in good humor, "Only if you pay."

---------------------------

Tezuka absently switched the lights on in his condominium, tossing his keys into a nearby bowl that sat on an elegant glass table by the entranceway. He balanced his briefcase against the wall as he shrugged his black coat off his shoulders, his arms moving mechanically to hang it up on a metal hook that protruded from his right. He moved his leather briefcase to his office before he moved toward his bedroom, switching on the kitchen lights as he passed.

He removed his jacket carefully, slowly undoing each button before he pulled **out an extra hook to hang it on**. He loosened his tie with one hand, his other hand reaching to the back of his neck as he gave it a twist to work out the sore muscles. The guilty charge was inevitable but the opposing lawyer seemed to have thrown Tezuka every single obstacle to make the conviction even slightly more difficult, from challenging everything from the blatant forensic finding to his detectives' credibility.

He spared a glance to the clock, mentally resigning himself to the time he knew was far too early for sleep. Tezuka mentally prepared a schedule in his mind, figuring he could work out what he needed for the preliminary hearing on the Kurosaki case before he prepared dinner.

He brushed a strand of hazel hair out of his eyes, readjusting his glasses out of habit. He passed his small and often unused living room as he headed back toward his office, his eyes catching on the quick reflection from glass. Tezuka paused, temporarily distracted.

Maybe, he thought.

The lawyer turned, walking toward the row are sparse photographs that were scattered over his shelves. The books settled silently in the almost decorative glass shelves that were built into the wall, arranged meticulously in alphabetical order. The slim silver picture frame taunted Tezuka as he reached out, mocking him for his weakness.

His slim, manicured fingers ghosted over the polished glass, his eyes meeting those almost identical. He examined the photograph, his eyes scanning over the features of his team, of Seigaku.

The nine had gathered around, grins plastered on almost everyone's face. A large trophy stood in the background, the golden polish glistening from the sunlight of that day.

Tezuka allowed a smile as his eyes fell on the famous Golden Pair, Kikumaru's arms thrown around Oishi's neck as they both laughed and smiled. Oishi had one arm around Kikumaru's shoulder in support, and Tezuka remembers the match that had brought them both to exhaustion.

The others flanked out the Golden Pair, Inui giving a calculating but undeniably satisfied smile as he stood next to a burning Kawamura. Momoshiro and Kaidoh grinned from the other side, both temporarily forgetting their rivalry as they reveled in the moment. Tezuka himself stood on the far left next to Ryuzaki-sensei, his own lips turned up in the faint presence of a smile.

He hadn't change much, Tezuka thought, his hand unconsciously fingering the ends of his hair. Same length, same color, even decades later. Other then a few more inches of height, Tezuka remained frozen in time.

At least time he looked the age he was.

Tezuka paused and his grip tightened slightly as he eyes fell on the last pair. Fuji lips were turned up into a genuine smile, Ryoma hanging of his right side with one of his trademark cocky grins. Tezuka brought his fingers to stroke the glass, almost wishing he could feel the soft silken skin under his hands once again.

Tezuka closed his eyes, his hand lingering over the unmarred glass in the softest feeling of regret. He set the picture back onto the shelf gently, sentimentally mindful of slowly lowering it onto the surface with an almost inaudible 'clink'.

He wouldn't let himself go down that path again. Tezuka refused to allow himself to wallow in self-pity and mistakes. He didn't think of the past everyday, and he didn't pretend that his life revolved around his first loves because it didn't.

But while Tezuka was never one to throw himself into denial, and he knew he'd be the first admit that he never stopped loving them.

---------------------------

Tezuka knew that joining their unique relationship was the biggest mistake he would ever life. Tezuka knew best, though, that they'd all be lying if they said sex wasn't the biggest factor of their so-called relationship.

Even years after it was over, he still wasn't sure how it started. They were young, foolish, and completely engrossed in their raging hormones. He and Shusuke shared an understanding and commitment. Shusuke and Ryoma threw themselves into the thrill of the chase. Ryoma loved the challenge of taunting Keigo, while Keigo and Genichirou gave themselves away to their passion.

They couldn't look away, and they couldn't stop even if they knew how.

None of them were sure it was love, half of them positive that it _wasn't_.

But a year later, they knew. A year later, they knew they were hopelessly in love. Because even without the sex, Ryoma had once said with an arrogant smile, "It was still okay."

And Tezuka always knew that within the mix of fights, foreplay, cross-dressing, sex, kisses, misunderstandings, fear, love, and promises, that it was the biggest mistake of his life.

He knew because even twenty-years later he couldn't help but remember every detail he wished never happened.

Because you can't miss what you never had.

---------------------------

Tezuka pulled himself from his morose nostalgia, closing his eyes as he allowed such thoughts of the has-beens and could-haves move past him and away. Tezuka wouldn't repress them; he wouldn't run away.

He would face it, and he would move on one day. It may be tomorrow or it may be in years, but Tezuka knew that he wouldn't mourn over that his life could have been forever.

And so he told himself as he walked away, snapping the overhead lights off as he walked into his solitary office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He had work, he thought. He had to work.

Never mind that the Kurosaki case wasn't needed for another week or that he had the next three days off. Never mind that Tezuka never took a break, working well into the night, completely forgetting that he skipped dinner.

Tezuka worked himself to exhaustion.

Because no matter what Tezuka told himself, he was still so very much in love with the ghost of what could have been.

---------------------------

Fuji and Sanada to go. I have ideas but nothing solid yet.

I'm a bit more satisfied with this chapter then the last, but I still don't like it as much as I could have been. It turned out drastically different than what I had hoped, and I ended up not including many things I planned and then including things I had never thought of before.

I worked on this chapter in many parts so I apologize if it feels disjointed. Considering that this chapter has been having parts added and removed from it for the last five/six months, I can only hope that isn't too noticeable.

Tezuka inner characterization kills me. Completely.

Review and be loved. This is currently un-beta'd, but I did get an offer so that might change in the near future.

_Version 1.0 – 3.27.07 – Un-beta'd_


	4. Sanada

Okay, my sudden renewed vigor for the Prince of Tennis fandom means that this story is not a lost cause. Yet.

My writing's a bit rusty, so you'll have to forgive me.

* * *

_A false calm had descended upon the moods of the foursome. It was an unwritten—unspoken—rule that no one spoke about Keigo's departure; his things had been quietly packed away and everyone had subtly started filling the void left behind, both figuratively and metaphorically. _

_Atobe's share of the closet had been slowly filled in, Fuji and Tezuka shifting their clothes closer and closer each day to hide the glaring gap where Keigo's flamboyant costumes had once sat. Ryoma had scattered his dozens of tennis shoes across where Keigo's had previously laid in a neat, color-coordinated row, while Sanada had taken to finishing his work on the diva's oak desk, often leaving his textbook uncharacteristically sprawled over the wooden surface in a vain attempt to make it look less like Keigo's and more like it had been his all along. Cans of Ponta and boxes of green tea slowly pushed there way in front of what was left of Keigo's premium coffee beans, and Sanada had slid Keigo's favorite brand of grip tape to the back of their tennis supply closet, behind Kunimitsu's spare wristbands and Shuushuke's old racket. _

_The bed had gotten bigger at night, both with and without sex. Despite the already industrial sized bed, no mattress was made large enough to fit five full-grown men. They had gotten used to it being a close fit—and didn't mind. Keigo would often spoon against Tezuka, his finger intertwined with Shuusuke's over Ryoma's hip as Sanada would lightly run his fingers up and down his arm. Now Ryoma would tangle his legs with his old captain's as he possessively held onto Sanada's hand, Fuji's hair too far away to tickle his nose to sleep. Part of them had wanted to sprawl more, to cover the empty spaces at each end of the bed behind Kunimistu and Genichirou while the other part wanted to grasp each other closer, press themselves into each other and pretend that Keigo was still there, brushing his calves against Fuji's knees and bumping elbows in Tezuka's stomach. _

_It was starting to weigh heavy on all of them, and Ryoma knew it was only a matter of time before their relationship cracked. Hell, it had cracked when Keigo left, it was just holding on to the last strands of hope before it shattered. _

_Ryoma pulled his white cap lower as the ends of his mouth turned down into frown, staring at the innocuous letter that was grasped in his left hand. His back was against the rough, concrete brick wall that framed the outdoor tennis courts . The carefully typed letter, written in English and signed with an elaborate blue signature, mocked him, called him a coward. _

_They had agreed that Ryoma wouldn't go pro until he finished college. _

_And the Australian Open was in five weeks. _

_Out of the five, only Ryoma and Tezuka still held any aspiration to turn pro, and while both had wanted to bolt the moment they had graduated from high school, both agreed to wait. Tezuka had already promised his family to finish college, though everyone had suspected his parents were still hoping he'd give up on such an absurd dream and settle with a safe desk job. Ryoma had only agreed because those he wanted to play a game with most were no further then a body or two over on Monkey King's oversized mattress. _

_Now, however, Ryoma thought, clutching the paper a bit tighter, the edges crinkling audibly under his fist and the text blurring under his eyes. Things had changed since Keigo left. The five of them had fit together, filling in each other's holes and weaknesses, covering each other in ways that four of them couldn't. _

_It was five or nothing, and Ryoma knew that nothing was just hop and a skip away. It was just a matter of time before the others realized that four wasn't the same as five, and Ryoma was going to be damned it he was going to be the one left in the end. _

_It was going to end. It was just a question of when._

_The Australian Open was in five weeks._

_Ryoma leaned his head back, a crumpled invitation in hand, staring at the blue, blue sky and the swirling leaves of pink cherry blossoms in the early spring wind and said his goodbyes. _

* * *

Sanada groaned as the shrill alarm rang out, its earsplitting beeps resounding through the small bedroom. He rolled over hurriedly, still half-asleep, quickly slamming down on the Snooze button to stop the angry cacophony. He sat up tiredly, his hair undoubtedly a mess as he rubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes with one hand. He pulled up one leg, resting his arm on his knee as he leaned forward, partially unwilling to completely get up from bed. He'd been on call the night before and had rushed into the hospital not long after two that morning after a disastrous car accident that resulted in a four-car pileup, two fatalities, and five high-risk, touch-and-go surgeries.

He returned to his quiet apartment over six hours later. They had lost the driver of the hit car during surgery as they struggled to remove a two-foot pole that had lodged itself straight through her upper abdomen during the crash. The pole had missed her heart by mere inches, as well as both lungs by just centimeters but had cracked several of her ribs. Once they had removed the pole, her organs had shifted dangerously as her rate of blood lost rapidly increased. The one of the cracked ribs had splintered and punctured her lung as she shifted her for surgery. When she was rolled into his operating room, Sanada already knew it was unlikely she would survive; it was a small mercy that she had been unconscious the entire time.

Her husband who had been sitting in the passenger sear had been DOA—Dead On Arrival.

The other three surgeries had stabilized. A pedestrian was now missing his leg from the knee down that had been stuck under one car, a middle-aged salary man would spend several months in physical therapy to walk properly, and the young woman in the third car may never wake from her coma, but they were alive.

Sanada exhaled a deep sigh; sometimes he regretted his choice to become a doctor. He had entered medical school with the full intent of specializing in sports medicine, hoping to cling on to what was left of his tennis career, but under familial pressures to pursue a more traditional medical path, he defaulted to general practice. It was only later that he decided to specialize in cardiovascular diseases and surgeries more out of convenience then actual interest.

He volunteered to be on emergency call primarily because there was no good reason not to. His peers often cited the struggles of reconciling long hours with their marriage, their family, and their friends. Sanada couldn't say the same. It was either Sanada, a middle-aged bachelor with few obligations outside his work, to be called out in the middle of the night or a weary father of three being pulled away from his wedding anniversary.

Sanada finally arched his back, popping his back with a grotesque crack before sliding his feet onto the cool wooden floor. He remembered to reach over to his alarm clock, where "10:02 AM" blinked in cherry red lights, and switched the alarm off. He was supposed to meet Seichi in an hour and a half. He walked languidly to the bathroom, half consciously turning on the water before adjusting it to a decent temperature. Haphazardly stripping his shirt off, he caught a glance at himself in bathroom mirror.

Dark bags hung under his eyes, which were dark with worry and stress. Strands of grey hair dotted his hair, years too early but a result of stressful years after his residency watching himself fail at saving lives. Bare arms and chest that were once chiseled with almost bulging muscles were now lean with subtle muscles that were beginning to soften from not keeping up with his training after too many late nights at the hospital. And his hands, which were once rough with calluses and dotted with bruises from holding onto a tennis racket and weight training were now lank and thin, covered in thin, paper cut scars from scalpels and bones.

Sanada stared at himself in the mirror for another second and wondered how everything had changed.

Despite reaching his forties, Yukimura Seichi was no less beautiful now then he was twenty years ago. He face had matured, angled, and his voice deepened but he still held an air of delicacy and beauty around him when he move and spoke. His blue hair, that had once hung limply around his face and only accented his feminine looks, was now cropped short, barely brushing the nape of his neck and comb neatly back. He was already sitting at the café when Sanada entered dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and thick woolen coat, a light periwinkle shirt peaking out from the collar.

Seichi waved him over, sipping carefully on his cup of black tea. A dark blue sweater hugged his shoulders, and a discarded black scarf sat next to him on the worn faux leather booth, evident of the chilly January morning. Sanada gave a weak smile in return, draping his coat over the back of the seat across from the former Rikkaidai captain.

Over the years, Yukimura was the only one from middle school and high school that Sanada still saw on a semi-regular basis. Their middle school tennis team had stayed close up until the end of college, where the group had then scattered as graduate schools, entry jobs, and starting family took over. Slowly, their reunion grew further and further apart, until Sanada one day realized that Yanagi's cell phone number had changed, and he didn't know how to reach anyone else to get his new one. It was only by accident that he ran into Yukimura a few years later, buying groceries of all things. Since then, they had been keeping their tradition of meeting up every few months when Seichi was in town.

"You look tired, Genichirou," Seichi finally said, after a waiter had taken Sanada's order for a cup of black coffee.

Sanada had long stopped being surprised that Seichi could still read his moods even after all these years; though, given that he was tired, it probably didn't take a lot of guess-work on the other man's part. "Probably because I am tired," he replied lightly, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. "Long night at the hospital."

Seichi clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "You could have called me, you know. We could have met another day, and you could have gotten some more sleep. You need to take better care of yourself. I always did say you'll work yourself to an early grave this way."

Sanada waved off his friends concern as he accepted a hot cup of coffee from their server, taking a hasty sip and ignoring the scalding, bitter burn he was rewarded with. He didn't bother to add any crème and sugar as he once did; years of subsisting on almost solely caffeine had made him immune to the strong, bitter tang of the drink. "You won't be in town again for a few more months; I think I can last one day with a few hours less sleep."

Seichi sighed but didn't fight his old friend's logic. After college, he had made himself into a rather successful businessman where most of his work meant spending time abroad in international markets. He would meet with Sanada whenever he was back in Japan, but he was scheduled to leave for English in a few weeks. Between his schedule, which was constantly changing with canceled, rescheduled, or new meetings and projects and Sanada's demanding, and equally unpredictable, schedule at the hospital, they took whatever time they could together.

Their waiter had returned, and they hastily gave their order to the man, not even glancing at the menu. They came here often to meet, and both had the menu practically memorized. Content with their choices, the waiter gave a pleasant, professional smile before leaving the two again.

"How's your wife?"

Seichi blinked out of his thoughts at the question but smiled. "Ami-chan is fine, thank you. She'll be visiting her parents for a few weeks before we leave again." The ends of his lips turned downward slightly. "We've…been having some troubles recently."

Sanada didn't reply, instead taking another sip of his coffee, which had started to cool, and waited for the other to continue. Most of their meetings were catching up on the other's lives, which was mundane but comforting. Despite their years apart, they often found themselves confiding with each other. It was a sign of the intimacy and trust that they once had, which had failed to fully carry over in the past twenty years but lingered like an old scar.

Seichi's lips were pursed together thinly as he chose his next words. "She wants to start a family."

"And you don't?" Sanada said, quirking an eyebrow as he cradled his coffee between his hands, letting the heat warm the tips of his fingers.

Seichi returned a small smile laced with just a tinge of sadness. "I do. It's just…" he trailed off a bit, ghosting his fingers along the rim of his teacup, before restarting. "We both want children. It's a little late in the game to start thinking about this now, but if we wait too much longer, it might not be a possibility. But, we move around too much right now. Ami-chan has already followed me around the world and back a few times, but I couldn't force our children to do the same. We've considered moving back to Japan permanently, but I don't know if my job will allow that."

Sanada grunted in response as he took another sip of his coffee. Seichi smiled at his laconic friend, glad that some things would never change. "But enough about my problems. How's _your_ wife and kids, Genichirou?"

Sanada scowled, setting his mostly empty cup down. "You mean _ex_-wife and _one_ kid, don't you, Seichi?"

Seichi replied with a mischievous smile and twinkle in his eyes.

"And they are both fine, thank you, as if you really care," Sanada mumbled with only partially feigned grumpiness. "Minami's doing fine, last time I spoke to her, and Kenta will be starting middle school in a few months." Sanada grimaced as he considered his ex-wife. Not long after he had turned thirty and partway through his residency, his family had become increasingly worried at his continued bachelor status. Despite Sanada resolute refusal to date to since a suitable wife, he finally agreed to an arranged marriage, if only to appease his mother. After a series of interviews and brief dates, he finally married Nakamura Minami, an average looking woman two years his junior who worked at a moderate-sized law firm as a secretary.

Their marriage, at best and at worst, was mediocre. It was obvious to both soon after the wedding ceremony that neither was particularly interested in the other and had only agreed because there was little other option. They were both content with their mediocrity, however, rarely seeing the other due to Sanada's overworked hours at the hospital. A year after their marriage, Minami gave birth to their son Kenta and officially quit her job to be a full-time housewife. From there, their marriage quickly deteriorated. Minami, now with nothing to keep her occupied but a screaming, irritated infant, grew increasingly frustrated. Three years after their son's birth, Sanada was not surprised when she ask him for an official divorce. She cited his chronic absences from long hospital hours and his emotional unavailability to both her and their son.

Sanada knew it was because she fell in love with the young man three doors down the hall who was so in love with Sanada's wife that only a fool could miss the adoration in his eyes. He agreed to the divorce without question, surprising his soon-to-be ex-wife. On the day they signed the divorce papers, he kissed her on the cheek and wished her luck.

"I'm still surprised you agreed to such terms for your divorce. You could have slaughtered her in court, you know. It wouldn't have been hard to prove her affair," Seichi murmured into his teacup as his sandwich arrived, the wheat bun lightly toasted with sprinkled sesame seeds and hints of cheese and lettuce poking out at the sides.

Sanada picked up his spoon and dipped it into the thick cream soup that was set before him. He stirred it a few times to cool it, before taking a small spoonful in his mouth, letting the rich flavor slide against his tongue. "You know why I didn't. We didn't care for each other in the beginning; I wasn't about to fault her for falling in love for someone else."

Seichi snorted. "You obviously cared enough for each other to pop out a baby or do I need to explain how that works to you again, Genichirou?" Yukimura purred teasingly as he pulled out the ripe slices of red tomatoes from between the slices of bread on his plate.

"That night would have been our fifteen year anniversary," Sanada admitted gently as he went back to stirring his soup, poking at the softened carrots and potatoes and refusing to meet his old friend's gaze. He never admitted to it before, partially to himself let alone aloud, but part of him was just too tired to care anymore.

Yukimura's eyes softened, and he moved to tuck his hair behind his ear out of habit before stopping at the short locks. "Genichirou," he said softly, reaching over the table to rest his hand on the other's and give it a comforting squeeze. "You really need to move on. It's been twenty years. _Over_ twenty years, in fact."

Sanada turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with that of his oldest friend's. He didn't look up; the fiery will that he'd been known for in his younger years had been all but drained out of him after two decades of work and loneliness. "I know. It's just one of those things that you look back on and wonder about the what-ifs. What if Keigo's father never found out about us, what if Ryoma hadn't gone pro, what if Shuu didn't decide to study abroad. What if I didn't run away from the only one who was left." Sanada squeezed Seichi's hand, reveling in the feel of the other's hand. He felt Seichi smooth his thumb over the top of his hand in comforting circles, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone.

"I saw Tezuka-san on the news the other day," Yukimura said suddenly, perking up slightly. He knew Sanada liked to keep up with the others, even with the heartache it caused. He assumed it made him feel better, knowing that the others were still okay. Genichirou had always been a bit of a mother hen to his friends, despite his worries being hidden beneath his dominating exterior and often apathetic answers. "He got the conviction on the Hiroba murders ."

Sanada managed to force a small smile that couldn't quite hide the lingering melancholy. "That's good. I'm glad." Tezuka, surprisingly, had been the easiest of the four to follow, being one of Tokyo's best Defense Attorneys tended to thrust him in the spotlight frequently. Keigo, for all his ego and glory, had followed the Atobe tradition of keeping his affairs out of the papers, and Ryoma was notoriously difficult for the press to find, even more so after his retirement. Shuusuke had all but vanished off the map after he graduated, and it was only because of a lucky glimpse in a psychology journal that Sanada even knew that he was still alive.

Seichi gave Sanada's hand another light squeeze before withdrawing his arm, finally picking up his sandwich to take a bite. He made a lighthearted comment about the weather to bring Sanada out of his musing and pushed them toward lighter conversation.

At the end of the meal, he Yukimura pushed himself up to his toes to gives Sanada a quick kiss on the cheek and a lingering hug. He quietly wished him the best before disappearing off in the crowd, his eyes lined with concern. His friend hadn't been the same for twenty years, and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

Sanada looked off into the blue, blue sky, past the towering skyscapers and mess of air pollution from the city, and wondered, wondered, wondered if life really does move on after love. Walking back to his apartment, he stopped in front of a florist, pausing momentarily as a flash green spikes caught his eyes. Five minutes later, he exited the store with a small potted cactus wrapped neatly in a bag.

Because some people never forget and never let go.

* * *

"_You're not coming back, are you?"_

_

* * *

  
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Explanation: I don't really have one. So three years later, after I make the mistake of taking a peel back into the Prince of Tennis fandom, I'm caught again in its sticky, sticky web. As a result, Delayed Reaction is not dead. I have every intention of completing this story, thought I don't guarantee when.

**I'm considering writing an Interlude portion of this story that would include random snippets of any of the five boys at various stages of their life in this 'verse. If you are interested, I'm opening up prompts/requests of what you'd like to see expanded on.**

Feel free to contact me at any time for questions, concerns, criticism, whatever. Much love to all the readers who have stuck by me over these years. Your support means more then you could ever imagine.


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